


Flames do not dance, they burn

by Everilde



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/F, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Lyna deserves love, Self-Indulgent, Will update tags as we go, and yes this is totally self-indulgent, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23110900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everilde/pseuds/Everilde
Summary: Many strangers have made their way to the Crystarium of late and Lyna has welcomed most at the Exarch's request. Now, however, a group of unknown faces seeks entry, on the claim that they wish to bring entertainment to the weary and the bored. The Guard Captain strives to serve the Crystarium people to the best of her ability and denying them such joy is too cruel. Still, she cannot help but be suspicious, especially as a fiery dancer starts to kindle something in her.
Relationships: Lyna/Non-WoL, Lyna/Original Female Character
Kudos: 19





	Flames do not dance, they burn

**Author's Note:**

> Was that summary lame? Yes. Is this fic going to involve my own OC? Mmmhm. Will it be self-indulgent? Almost certainly. 
> 
> But do I care?
> 
> Nope. 
> 
> Anyway hello, I hope this isn't total shit, but if it is I'm going to write it anyway.  
> Hopefully, I don't forget and leave out anything canon about Lyna. If I do, please tell me and I will fix it!  
> Also, I welcome constructive criticism, always. Especially when it comes with a smile (:
> 
> This starts around the beginning of Shadowbringers

It is rare she lets her mind wander, but on the day the wagon comes rocking along the white dusted road, her thoughts are distant. They are faint and fleeting; a subtle concern, a muted reminder, a curious memory that lingers just out of reach. For not the first time, she stretches for it, just barely caressing the outer rims of this thought, of this vision from her youth.

She does not remember her parents, but there are moments like this where she thinks she could.

When the memory fails to be caught, she grows frustrated and instead wonders at what she can never know. Their faces, their professions, their names… She knows nothing about the people who's blood runs through her veins. She knows only that they did not survive long after her birth.

These thoughts are followed by guilt, for what reason has she to wonder or care? What good does it do to long for something so far in the past, something she lost before she ever knew what loss meant?

She was lucky. Luckier than most children, anyway. It is uncommon for the youngest of them to be taken during an attack, for their lives have been too short, their aether too limited. They are but a small morsel compared to the feast that is their elders.

She had been a babe, too new, too fresh, her soul only just budding.

They had not wanted her. They had not noticed her. She had survived.

And she had been lucky, still, to be found and taken to the Crystarium. Luckier even that it was the Exarch who saw to her upbringing. What child could ever hope to be so fortunate?

There is relief when the caravan appears on the road and the murmur of curiosity rumbles among the Guard. It brings her from these thoughts and in silence she reprimands herself, just as she would to any of the men and women she commands.

_Focus._

_Remain vigilant._

_Such carelessness will cost a life._

It is easy to transfer her frustration with herself onto the strangers nearing the Exarch Gate. 

“Is the Crystarium due for a shipment?” she asks one of the blue-clad men standing guard. 

“We have no record of it, Captain.” 

“I did not think so.” 

The wagon is pulled by an Amaro, the back piled high with crates and chests. A Hume man sits at the front, directing the Amaro. He is finely dressed and handsome, almost befitting a dapper gentleman from Eulmore,  save for the fact that he is driving his own wagon .

On a crate behind him  sits another male Hume and beside him a female Mystel. Their attire is more simple, their placement in the back of the wagon a sure sign of their lower status compared to the man at the front. 

She can see nothing else over the piles of belongings .

Briefly she considers that these people could be more of the Exarch's strange guests, but if so they are the first to arrive with any belongings, as far as she knows. There was only one she witnessed arrive by gate and they certainly had not come upon an overladen wagon. This is enough to earn her suspicion. 

“Halt!” she demands and obediently the man tugs hard on the Amaro's reins, as if he anticipated this very greeting. The creature's dark feathers ruffle in response, but it halts, almost too eagerly. How long has it pulled this heavy wagon, she wonders?

“I know every face that comes and goes from this city. Yours I have never seen and you do not have the look of refugees. What business have you with the Crystairum?” 

The man smiles, wickedly charming, and Lyna instantly decides she dislikes him. He is not phased by her hard glare. 

“You must be the Guard Captain I was told to expect,” he answers. Even his voice is smooth and rich, seductive in a way that triggers a warning in her gut. 

The man turns to look at the Mystel and without a word she climbs gracefully over from the back of the wagon to take the seat beside him. The Amaro's reins are placed in her hands and she holds them steady, watching Lyna with a touch of curiosity, and a touch of boredom. Meanwhile, the man jumps off the side, landing naturally on his feet, a cocky smirk at his lips, and approaches. 

“Where I am from, they call me the Man with the Dancing Flame.” He gives an over-exaggerated bow. “But you may call me Edric.” 

“Edric,” she repeats, her tone flat and unimpressed. “You have yet to answer why you are here.” 

There had been a shine in his eyes, a glimmer of amusement, but it dulls from her tone. She takes satisfaction in this as the man stands tall and clears his throat, momentarily thrown off by her demeanor. 

“Well, we are here to do what we do best,” Edric replies, bringing back his confident smile. “ _Entertain_. We are a dancing troupe, you see, though a small one. Sinners got most of our dancers a few years back and it's been hard to find adequate talent.” 

“I see.” Lyna crosses her arms over her chest and stares hard at the man. It would be cruel of her to deny the Crystarium entertainment, so rarely does it come from outside the city. A dancing troupe may very well be a good thing, something to bring joy to the city's people. It is this thought, this devotion to the Crystarium and its citizens, that makes the Captain approve. 

“Very well,” she says, and before Edric can return to his seat, “But we will need to search your wagon first.” 

S he is quick to catch the stiffening of his smile, the slight strain at the corner of his eyes, but he is equally quick to hide it. 

“But of course!” the man exclaims, stepping to the side and welcoming her with a theatrical sweep of his arm. 

Lyna looks to the guards nearby and gives them a nod, and without question they move forward. “Search everything,” she commands, her arms dropping to her sides; her gloved hands just caressing the chakrams sheathed there. “We can never be too careful.” 

She leaves Edric standing there, his eyes sharp as he observes their inspection. Her men have started at the front of the wagon, but Lyna carefully circles toward the back, eying the sides for anything hidden in the woodwork or near the wheels. 

She does not expect there to be a fourth member of the troupe, hidden behind the stack of belongings piled into the wagon. Her first sight of the woman is of her legs, one crossed over the other. Her feet are angled, nestled within heels that end in a deadly point, attached to an elegant casing that ensnares her legs from  calf to mid-thigh.  Lyna has seen these shoes on other Viis, but they are only worn by those who come from Rak'tika, who's feet have been shaped by the traditional heels of their people. Others, like Lyna, never knew such a life.  It is a wonder to  the Captain, who practically lives in her armor, how any could wear such shoes comfortably. 

The woman wears a skirt that is short and tight, and a button-up shirt of a reddish hue. The top  few  buttons have been left undone, exposing the soft curve of her breasts. She has skin slightly browned, the color warm and rich, and hair that falls in wild waves of a dark umber. The tips are reddened, as if burned and colored by the blazing light that shines eternal. 

It is only when Lyna's gaze rises and meets the gold of this Viis' eyes that she realizes she has been studying the woman in silence for too long. The Viis notices too, for the corner of her lips – tinted darkly – curve into a smirk. 

It makes Lyna scowl, and when she speaks her voice is perhaps harsher than necessary. “Down,” she demands. “So that  I may search .” 

The smirk does not leave the Viis' lips, but  she  obliges without complaint. When she slides off the back of the wagon, Lyna is oddly pleased to see that – even with those deadly heels  on  –  the Viis is a head shorter than she is . 

The guards are already in the wagon, conducting their search. One of them pushes a box towards Lyna while the other rummages quickly through a trunk. 

“Those are my personal things!” the Mystel hisses, but she goes ignored, save for an apologetic glance. 

The box Lyna opens seems to also be full of personal belongings. She carefully looks through a stack of garments, all of them seemingly scant of covering and overly decorated with gems. A dancer's garb, if she had to guess. She can feel the eyes of the other Viis on her back, and as she pulls free a thin strip of  sapphire  cloth connected  by three strings, that gaze  grows  almost hot enough to sear through Lyna's armor;  not in anger, but simply in its intensity . 

“Careful with those,” the Viis says, her voice so heavily accented that it gives Lyna pause. “They are my favorite undergarments.” 

It takes her a moment to register just what the woman has said, for she is too drawn by the accent, so distinctly Viis as it is. She has an accent of her own, developed by the Viis caretakers who tended to her when the Exarch was busy, but it is nothing as exotic as this woman's. 

“I suppose you can borrow them, if you are so inclined to keep hold of them.” 

This is what makes her finally drop the undergarment  in slight embarrassment that could easily be mistaken for disgust. S he turns to face the Viis and is met with an amused grin and eyes that  burn like the pleasant heat of a crackling fire. Even the eternal light gracing the dark head of this woman outlines her in a brilliant,  fiery  glow. 

And Lyna cannot decide if she is intrigued or annoyed. 

“I take it you are 'the Dancing Flame'?” she asks. 

“I prefer Yenra, but yes, that is what they call me.” 

“Who are 'they'? Where did you come from?” 

“Eulmore,” she places a hand on her hip, and as if expecting Lyna's next question… “We came by boat, docked in Sullen.” 

“We rarely get visitors from Eulmore.” Really, she means, never. There is at least one Eulmoran she recalls staying in the Pendants, but no more than that. 

“And Eulmorans rarely stay intrigued by the same thing for long.” Yenra takes a step closer to lean against the back of the wagon, facing Lyna. There is a scent to her and as she moves so close it fills Lyna's nostrils. But it is a fragrance she cannot name, a perfume born of a flower she does not know. Perhaps it came from Rak'tika. 

“We put on a show,” the Viis continues. “We earn coin. And then we leave. We travel, bring entertainment to the less luxurious of places, and give the people something new to waste their money on. By the time we return, the Eulmorans have grown bored with their lives again and are eager to see what new dances… And new pleasures, I bring.” 

H er brow furrows. “I hope these dances of yours are tasteful. There are children in this city and I can only imagine what sort of 'entertainment' appeals to the people of Eulmore.” 

Yenra chuckles lowly, her golden eyes finding Lyna's. It is only by her iron will that the Captain manages to hold that gaze, piercing and intense as it is. 

“My dances are as tasteful as my audience desires,” she answers. “But I shall keep the more… questionable ones for private sessions.” 

They stare at one another for a long moment, Yenra with her flirtatious smirk, and Lyna with her disapproving frown. 

A guard clears his throat and breaks their hold. “The wagon is searched, Captain,” the man announces. “Nothing seems out of the ordinary.” 

“Very good. Let them pass, then.” 

The guards climb down from the wagon, and Yenra gracefully returns to her seat at the back. She crosses a long leg over the other and leans back against her box of dresses and undergarments. 

“I hope you will come watch me dance, Captain.” 

“I have no time to indulge in such...” She hesitates. “In such pleasures.” 

Yenra exhales a sigh and gives a small shrug of the shoulder. “A shame. You look like you could use a bit of pleasure.” 

Her eyes never leave Lyna, not even as Edric urges the Amaro to move and the wagon begins to rumble along towards the Crystarium. 

And Lyna, watching with crossed arms and an uneasy sensation in her gut, feels  that those eyes have burned past her skin and settled somewhere deep; somewhere she cannot reach, so that she will never be free of them. 


End file.
